


Extra Time

by FictionPenned



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alex asked why we even have this lever, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24539893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: The Not-Doctor-But-Obviously-The-Doctor shakes her head. “No, but you mentioned time. I’ve got a bit of that. Well, not a bit of it, strictly speaking. Got a thing that will help you bargain for more time when you’re out of it. Or when someone you love needs it. Never know what you might need in a pinch.”Graham takes a step forward, fighting to sort through the string of near-nonsense. The Doctor is often frustrating to listen to, but he’s learned that when she has something to say, it’s usually important. “What do you mean?”“Time’s a tricky thing to hold onto. You only have a set amount of it and then poof — it’s gone. People of all species have been bargaining for more time for eons. Medicine, engineering, terraforming, it’s all just a gambit for making lives longer, isn’t it?” She tilts her head, blonde hair skating across her shoulders. Her eyes are intently focused on him, as if awaiting an answer to a question that ought to be rhetorical.Written for Thirteen Fanzine Prompt Week Day 4: Out Of Time
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Graham O'Brien, Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan & Graham O'Brien & Ryan Sinclair
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	Extra Time

Interstellar markets are horribly chaotic.

It’s the sort of environment that the Doctor thrives in, and the sort of environment that makes Graham a bit nervous. People are packed in so tightly that it is almost impossible to move. He’s touched shoulders and hands with more people than he would like, and he’s already felt a tentacle slither up his arm — an experience that he would greatly like to avoid repeating, thank you very much. Vendors hawk their wares from their booths, shouting about cures for diseases that he’s never heard of, stolen technology, and art that, according to the Doctor, almost always tends to be forgeries. The light in the space is dim and moody, provided only by a smattering of tiny gold hovering pinpricks that remind Graham of lightning bugs, but when he finally gets a decent look at one, it looks more like a bioluminescent squid than a firefly. The sight sends an uncomfortable shiver through him, and he resolves to never look at the horrid things again. 

However, none of that is the worst thing about the market. The worst thing is that none of the booths seem to be selling food, and he’s already eaten his emergency sandwich. They’ve been here for hours — hunting down an obscure part to the TARDIS that the Doctor insists is impossible to find anywhere else — and he’s about at his limit.

He needs a snack and a good lie down, otherwise he’s going to start to get snippy.

Graham is about to tell the Doctor as much, but then he realizes that she’s not there. She had been at his side for ages, blabbering on about nothing in particular, but now that he needs her, she’s gone.

He stops and spins. No sight of their usual crew.

“Doc!” he yells, standing on his tiptoes and trying to project over the crowd.

A green fellow by his elbow shushes him, and a large figure seemingly chiseled straight from granite shoves into his back.

“Oi, watch it,” Graham spits back at them both before raising his voice again. “Doc! Ryan! Yaz!”

No answer.

No sight of them.

He feels like a child who’s managed to lose his mother at the fair, and he doesn’t know what to do. He didn’t bring a phone, the Doctor didn’t provide any other method of communication, and they didn’t bother to set a meeting place.

Whenever they meet up again, he’s going to have a few words with the Doc about the importance of meeting places.

Someone shoves him again, and he begins to shimmy sideways, trying to remove himself from the pressing flow of traffic. It takes a painfully long time, but eventually, he manages to duck through a beaded curtain and into the relative sanctuary of a random booth.

He can still hear the noise and chaos of the crowd outside, but maybe it will be easier to come up with a plan here. He can breathe, at least, and that ought to count for something where planning is concerned.

“You looking to buy? I’ve got loads of useful things. You look like a guy who could use some useful things.”

Graham’s head snaps up. He hadn’t bothered to so much as glance at the seller when he first entered, but he knows that voice. “Doc?” he asks. 

The seller sounds like the Doctor, and she looks like the Doctor. Hair’s longer, maybe. Face is older. Eyes are ancient. She’s dressed differently, though. In a pressed grey suit with a rainbow chain that bridges the gap of her collar.

“Nope!” the stranger says brightly. “Don’t have a name. Never did, really. Friends call me whatever they like and I just go along with it, but I’ve never heard Doc before. I like it though. It’s straight to the point.”

Confuse scribes itself deep into the furrows of Graham’s brow. He knows that the Doctor’s always been a bit peculiar, but he doesn’t have the patience for any of these games today. Even if it’s a Doctor from the future, she’s still the Doctor. She should still know who he is, and more importantly, she should know that he knows who she is. “Stop pulling my leg, I know it’s you. Come now, where are the others?”

“No others. Just me and my wares. You need anything?” Her fingers dance idly across the surface of the table, tapping over a hundred tiny gadgets that Graham does not recognize and knows nothing about.

Graham sighs. “You got any food? It’s past time for supper and I’m starving.”

The Not-Doctor-But-Obviously-The-Doctor shakes her head. “No, but you mentioned time. I’ve got a bit of that. Well, not a bit of it, strictly speaking. Got a thing that will help you bargain for more time when you’re out of it. Or when someone you love needs it. Never know what you might need in a pinch.”

Graham takes a step forward, fighting to sort through the string of near-nonsense. The Doctor is often frustrating to listen to, but he’s learned that when she has something to say, it’s usually important. “What do you mean?”

“Time’s a tricky thing to hold onto. You only have a set amount of it and then _poof_ — it’s gone. People of all species have been bargaining for more time for eons. Medicine, engineering, terraforming, it’s all just a gambit for making lives longer, isn’t it?” She tilts her head, blonde hair skating across her shoulders. Her eyes are intently focused on him, as if awaiting an answer to a question that ought to be rhetorical.

“I suppose,” Graham concedes hesitantly, taking another step forward. “But how do you bargain for time when you’re out of it? Doesn’t it just keep going regardless?”

The Not-Doctor lifts her hand and taps a finger against the side of her nose. “Bit complicated. You sure you want to waste your time on answers you wouldn’t understand? I wouldn’t, if I was you.”

“Sounds like something a scammer would say. You’re not just selling shiny rocks and calling them magic, are you?”

The Not-Doctor ducks behind her display for a moment. She emerges a moment later with a ornate chest in her hands, as small as an engagement ring box. She flicks open the flask, and inside, is a tiny glass bottle. It glows gold, and its light is so bright that it bathes the entire booth in sunlight. “Pure energy. Very chic. Bit rare, this is my only sample. Once you buy it, I’m out.”

Against his better judgement, Graham takes another step forward. Something about it calls to him, and it raises the memory of the Doctor glowing on his sofa, casting light into the air with every slow breath. “I don’t have money,” he finds himself saying.

“I’ll take your watch!” The Not-Doctor offers brightly. “Time for time. Bit poetic, that. Love a good circle.”

“You sure?” His eyes flick upward, focusing on the Doctor’s face. Despite the joy in her tone, there is worry in her gaze, in the lines of her face.

It casts a chill through him.

If she _is_ the Doc, then she knows that he’ll need this. Or Ryan will need it. Or Yaz.

He can’t not take it.

“Positive,” she says.

Graham undoes the latch on his watch with fumbling fingers and passes it to her. She takes it, closes the lid of her box, plunging them back into the dim light that pervades the market, and passes it to him. He tucks it into the pocket of his jacket, zipping it closed. “Thanks,” he says.

“Don’t open it before you need it,” she warns.

“How will I know when that is?”

“You’ll know.”

Behind him, the beaded curtain rustles, and Yaz’s voice falls upon his ears.

“Graham! We were wondering where you got off to. The Doctor’s running about with a sign.”

“Says ‘Lost Grandpa’ on it. Bit ridiculous, but she thinks she’s helping,” Ryan adds.

Graham turns to look at them, fumbling for the right words. “I was here the whole time, with —“ He glances back over his shoulder, but the Not-Doctor is gone. It’s almost as though she was never there. He changes tact mid-sentence. He doesn’t know how to explain what just happened. “Figured I’d stay put until you lot found me, didn’t I?”

“Come on, the Doctor’s around somewhere. She’s noisy. We’ll find her,” Ryan says.

Yaz draws back the curtain, holding it open for them as they pass back into the chaos of the marketplace proper.

Graham taps the outside of his pocket, feeling the box, just to make sure that it’s still there, that he didn’t pass out and have some weird dream.

He wonders when he’ll need a bit of extra time.


End file.
